My Son—Liberty in Sight—Au Revoir!—Suspense—The Open Door—A Footprint—The Trail
While Sowinski was making his way down the hill, a sampan with two passengers put off in dead silence from one of the junks in the roadstead. The vessel had arrived that afternoon with a small cargo of rice; she was to ship a consignment of dried fish for Chifu. The loading was to be commenced at dawn on the following day; she was not to carry a full cargo, having to fill up with coal at Alexandrovsk; by the evening it was expected that her consignment would be on board, and she would sail again next morning.
The sampan moved without a splash towards the northern end of the bay, where there were no huts. The fishing settlement extended half round the southern end, and the lumber yards occupied the rest of the southern quarter and part of the northern. It was a very solitary spot at which the passengers landed, and the sampan-man—who happened also to be the owner of the junk—steering his little craft between two rocks, where he was secure from observation, squatted motionless, apparently awaiting the return of the two men whom he had just put ashore.
Making a circuit round the lumber settlement—a somewhat difficult matter in the dark—the two passengers, one of whom evidently knew the way and walked a pace or two in advance, stopped at a hut a little larger than the majority of those they had passed, and gently tapped at the door. No light was visible; the taller of the two men cleared his throat as in nervous impatience. A step was heard within; the door was opened, and a voice asked in Russian:
"Who is there?"
"It is I, gráf," said the man who had led the way. "I have a friend with me."
"Come in, then."
The two entered; the door was gently closed behind them. The outer room was in complete darkness; but, leading the way through that, Count Walewski opened a farther door, which led into a second room, dimly lighted by a couple of candles. A man was seated at a table, reading.
"Here is our friend Godunof, comrade," said the count in French.
Mr. Brown looked up—looked again, stared, then sprang to his feet.
"Jack!"
The taller of the two visitors brushed past Godunof, and father and son clasped hands. For a few moments not a word was spoken by either of them; a stranger might not perhaps have guessed from their manner that they had been parted for nearly a year—the father a victim of foul wrong, the son ignorant of the father's whereabouts and burning to avenge the wrong. But beneath his iron-gray moustache and beard Mr. Brown's lips were quivering, and Jack had a lump in his throat which made him incapable of speech when his father turned to the count and, keeping Jack's hand in his, said simply:
"My son, Count."
Count Walewski was deep in conversation with the other man. He seemed scarcely to comprehend what Brown had said.
"Your son! But—my daughter—you remember her letter; she is here, now, in a junk at the shore; Godunof says so; it bewilders me; am I dreaming? Your son!—they came together; Godunof tells me they have come to take us away. After all these years!—Brown, this will kill me!"
The count, trembling like a leaf, leant for support against the crazy table.
"Sit down, my friend," said Brown. "We must keep our heads. Jack has come on a desperate adventure; it takes my breath away; he must tell us what it means."
A long conversation ensued—not long in point of time, but in the amount of matter compressed into it. The difficulty of arranging the escape lay in the impossibility of knowing from what quarter the wind would be blowing at any hour that might be determined. Without a favourable wind the Yu-ye could not get out to sea; and it would be madness for Mr. Brown and the count to go aboard until there was a practical certainty of the junk being able to slip away. As soon as they were missed, every boat in the roadstead would be searched. And even if the vessel cleared the bay, there was always a risk of its being followed by the government launch engaged to patrol the fishing settlements along the coast, perhaps by a gunboat sent from Korsakovsk in response to a telegram. The launch at this moment lay at anchor in the bay, and unless the Yu-ye got a good start and a fair wind, it must inevitably be overhauled, though the government boat was an old and crazy vessel whose best work was long since done.
Granted a favourable wind, then, it was arranged that the two, the following midnight, should make their way down to the point at which Jack had landed. If the wind proved unfavourable, the departure must be postponed. The junk would slip her moorings at the first glint of dawn, and before the escape was discovered Jack hoped they would be hull down on the horizon.
"But what speed can you make?" asked Mr. Brown. "You can't outrun a steamer."
"I doubt whether the launch would venture far into the open," said Godunof, the colonist who had carried the letters between Gabriele and her father. "She can't stand heavy weather, and a gale may spring up at any moment in these seas. Besides, she'd be chary of meeting Japanese cruisers in the Strait of La Perouse. I wonder, indeed, she ventured into this bay—no better than an open roadstead, and exposed to attack."
"She only arrived two days ago from Korsakovsk," said Mr. Brown. "She came on a matter of revenue; nothing else brings her here."
"Well, we must chance it, Father," said Jack. "We've got here safely, and please God we shall get away safely too. We can run for the nearest Japanese port, and there we'll be as safe as—as in Portsmouth Harbour, by Jove!"
The plan having been discussed rapidly, yet with anxious care, Jack took leave of the two gentlemen—all three with full hearts wondering whether they would ever meet again—and returned by the way he had come.
His return was eagerly expected on board the junk. He had scarcely clambered over the side when a figure closely enwrapped in Chinese dress moved towards him.
"Did you see him?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle. He was overcome at the news that you were here."
"And is he well? And your father—both well? Oh, Monsieur Jack, I pray that nothing, nothing, may happen! Nobody knows of your visit?—you are quite sure? You made them understand?—the time, the place, the wind? To think that we have to wait a whole night and day! I can hardly endure it!"
"I am just as bad, really, Mademoiselle. Lucky for me we have to load up to-morrow; that will give me something to do. By this time to-morrow——"
The next day was a time of dreary waiting. It was a bright morning, the sky clear, the sea smooth—too smooth, thought Jack, anxiously whistling for a wind. The cargo was taken on board—smelling horribly, but Gabriele waived Jack's condolences: what was such an unpleasantness beside the larger matter of her father's safety? As the day wore on, black clouds came scudding out of the north; the wind freshened minute by minute, and the junk began to roll.
"The wind serves!" cried Gabriele joyfully. "Oh for the dark!"
Some time before the hour agreed upon, the sampan was punted to the appointed spot. In it were Jack, Hi Lo, and the owner of the Yu-ye. The wind was roaring, the sky was black, the tide full, and the Chinaman had much ado to prevent his craft from being dashed against the rocks. Time passed; nobody appeared. Jack looked at his watch; it was twenty minutes after midnight. What had delayed the prisoners? Another twenty minutes; he was becoming uneasy. What could have happened? Godunof could not have played him false; the colonist had not returned to the junk with him the night before, but since he had received only a portion of the reward promised him, it was unlikely that he had betrayed the secret. Had the prisoners been delayed by an unexpected visitor? Had they started and been caught? All kinds of possibilities occurred to him.
At last, when the two were fully an hour and a half late, he could endure the anxiety and suspense no longer. He resolved to go up to the hut, and alone. But when he told the Chinaman what he intended, and asked him to put him ashore, Hi Lo spoke:
"My go long-side masta."
"No, no; you must stay and look after Mademoiselle."
"My no wantchee stay-lo; my no can do. Masta wantchee some piecee man allo-time long-side; ch'hoy! what-fo' Hi Lo no belongey that-side?"
The boy was already slipping over the side of the sampan.
"Very well then," said Jack reluctantly.
Then, turning to the Chinaman, he bade him remain at the same spot until near dawn. If by that time Jack had not returned, the man was to go back to the junk and come again when darkness fell on the following night. He must find some excuse for not putting to sea, and not let it be known that anyone connected with the junk was ashore. Above all, he was to watch over the women.
With great caution Jack and the boy stole round the settlement towards Mr. Brown's hut. Unfortunately, as Jack thought, a bright moon was shining fitfully through gaps in the scudding cloud; and having to take advantage of every patch of shadow when it appeared, their progress was slow. The wind was bitter cold; the spring-like promise of the earlier part of the day had been succeeded by a sharp frost, which had already hardened the slush and mud except in places sheltered from the blast. The thin ice on standing pools broke under their tread, with a crackle that gave Jack a tremor lest it should have been heard. But there was not a light or a movement in the settlement, nor any sound save the whistling of the wind and the booming of the surf on the shore.
Stealthily they made their way up the hillside. They arrived at the hut. The door was closed, the window dark. Jack tried to peer through interstices between the rough logs of the wall; he put his ear against the wood; he heard nothing, saw no glimmer of light. With a sinking heart he pushed gently at the door. It yielded to his touch. He entered, groping in the dark; and bidding Hi Lo close the door, he struck a match and held it above his head. Feeble as the light was, it showed enough to strike him cold with despair. The hut was empty, and in disorder. A chair was overturned; a half-burnt candle lay on the floor; the table was pushed into a corner, and a book had fallen beneath it and stood on its bent leaves. Jack picked up the candle and lit it. The clean boards of the floor were marked with many muddy stains as of scuffling feet. Dreading to search, Jack yet looked for traces of blood; there were none. But among the marks one struck him particularly—a huge footprint, too large to have been made by either Count Walewski or his father. Someone had entered before the ground outside had frozen. But the struggle—everything in the bare hut spoke of a struggle—must have taken place after the fall of dusk, for with a pair of old perspective glasses found in the junk Jack had kept a close watch on the hut, and had seen his father enter, late in the afternoon, with another figure—presumably the count.
Dazed with this sudden set-back to his hopes, Jack sat down on one of the chairs, resting his throbbing head upon his hands. A feeling of utter helplessness paralysed him. Hi Lo stood watching him, the boy's whole attitude one of mute sympathy. Had the authorities got wind of the plot, thought Jack, and again spirited his father away? Had Godunof, the ex-convict, betrayed him? Scarcely, or a police visit would have been made to the junk, and he himself arrested. He tried to pull himself together; he must do something, and at once; but what? He could not tell; he was in the dark; and Gabriele in the junk was waiting, listening, wondering why ere this she was not in her father's arms.
Bending forward in his misery, suddenly his eye fell on the huge footmark made with a clay-clogged boot on the white floor. The boot must have been of quite unusual size; what could have been the stature of the man who owned it? Jack suddenly sprang up; if there was such a footmark within, would there not be others, similar, without? By them could not the assailants be traced? He was convinced that his father and the count had been attacked: should he rouse the settlement? Their lives might be in danger; in warning the authorities he would at the worst only risk his own liberty. But supposing the authorities themselves should be concerned in the matter! To appeal to them would then be worse than useless; he would merely sacrifice his own freedom, and with it all possibility of serving his father.
Still the footmark stared at him. An idea suggested itself. Could he trace the man himself? He had never followed any trail but that of a paper-chase; but what of that? It was worth a trial. In a rapid whisper he told his thoughts to Hi Lo. The boy nodded with full comprehension. Jack blew out the light, and pocketed the candle; then the two groped their way to the door and issued forth into the moonlit night.